


Like Hand in Glove

by soaringrachel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Holding Hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:45:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soaringrachel/pseuds/soaringrachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia's hand just keeps finding Allison's, or maybe it's the other way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Hand in Glove

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a 30-day challenge at my tumblr--actually an art challenge which I adapted to a "thousand plus words of fic challenge" because I do what I want.
> 
> I feel a bit guilty I still haven't gotten to the last couple episodes of s2; I've set this during senior year to try and avoid any conflict but I heartily apologize if I've badly contradicted canon.
> 
> The prompt was "handholding".

            Allison’s back hurts.

            That’s the first thing she notices, cramped-up muscles and the sun behind her eyes. She opens them to see it’s shining through lace curtains. Not her lace curtains.

            She’s freaked for a second and then she blinks and remembers where she is—Lydia’s house, Lydia’s bed, and sure enough there’s Lydia sleeping next to her, hair curled over flushed cheeks. “Just stay,” Lydia’d said last night, Allison dropping her off after midnight, and Allison had heard the note in her voice that said she really needed it, had tumbled into bed with her still in party dresses and updos.

            Her head hurts too, actually.

            It must be six in the morning—Allison’s an early riser even when she’s not this uncomfortable, in an unfamiliar bed, and Lydia’s decidely not. She shifts, as quietly as possible, tries to pull her arms up into a stretch.

            Tries, because her left hand’s tangled up in the blankets, and she can’t quite—

            Oh. She finally looks down, sees Lydia’s fingers loosely wrapped around her wrist.

            It’s early, Allison thinks. She figures she can sleep a little longer.

 

            They’re at the mall, because Lydia’s determined to find Allison a wardrobe, so they don’t have to do this every week.

            “All right,” Lydia says, walking, “so I thought Nordstrom’s to look at the sales first, and then there’s a Betsey Johnson, and then as far as jewelry—”

            Allison’s not listening. She’s not even there.

            Lydia walks back an embarrassing amount, sees Allison staring at the window of the sports store.

            “I could use a new arm guard,” Allison says.

            Lydia takes her hand and _pulls_.

 

            “May I have this dance?” Lydia asks, and Allison smiles, relieved.

            “Show everyone you don’t miss Scott,” she whispers, following Allison to the dance floor.

            “I do miss Scott,” Allison says. “I mean, it was mutual. We were too serious for two people who were never getting married. But I miss him.”

            Lydia rolls her eyes. “You can miss him,” she says, placing her hand on Allison’s hip.

            Allison smiles and slips her hand into Lydia’s. It’s hot, and softer than hers, and it feels nice. “You just can’t let them see,” she choruses along.

 

            Lydia’s grip slips for the fifteenth time and Allison laughs at her. “Oh, please,” Lydia says, “I could just buy a gun if I cared,” but she’s blushing.

            “Look,” Allison says, “it’s not straight up and down. I know that’s how it looks, but you need more balance.” She rolls up the sleeves of her hoodie and shows her, sends an arrow into the heart someone’s carved on a nearby tree.

            Lydia’s eyebrows go up. “Nice,” she mutters. Allison supposes the tree wasn’t _that_ nearby.

            But then she looks back at Lydia, and Lydia’s got a _look_ on her face, a look that means I’ve-got-a-plan-and-it’s-a-good-one. “Show me again,” she says, and holds the bow up.

            She’s obviously standing wrong deliberately, arrow drooping in and out of balance, and Allison groans and stands behind her, shifts her into proper place.

            “Help me,” Lydia says, and Allison covers her hands with her own, draws back past Lydia’s cheek and lets go.

            They stand there for what feels like minutes, one hand covering another, until the _thwack_ of the arrow hitting the ground brings them to their senses, and Lydia shoots again.

 

            They’re at the school and it’s after dark and it’s not a full moon but Beacon Hills High School is a bad place to be at night either way; Scott and Stiles were supposed to meet them, but Stiles said something about “achieving his goals”, whatever that means, and Scott didn’t feel up to meeting his ex-girlfriend and Lydia Martin by himself.

            So they’re doing the detective work alone. It’s not exactly a problem; Allison can defend herself better than Stiles can, and probably better than Scott if she’s honest. But four would’ve been better than two.

            Lydia goes to turn on the lights and screams.

            And then Allison sees it too—glinting eyes in the distance—and she puts one hand on her bow but the other goes straight into Lydia’s before she can think about it.

            Which is how Derek finds them, clutching each other’s hands, ready for a fight.

            “Huh,” he says, and then “Find anything yet?”

 

            “There was nothing to ‘huh’ about,” Lydia says, sounding miffed. They found what they were looking for, all right, clear evidence that the “vampire” threatening Beacon Hills is nothing but a geography teacher with a sick sense of humor, and they’ve called in a tip to the real police—this one’s none of their business. So now Allison and Lydia are sitting on Allison’s roof, painting their fingernails pink and taking turns to look at each other.

            It’s ridiculous for Allison to feel like this—like there’s not a butterfly in her stomach but a rickety old radiator, bouncing off screws and heating up the place. There’s nothing to feel that way _about_ —no vampire, no Scott, no, well, nothing to “huh” about. But she does.

            Lydia, on her side of the neatly laid-out newspaper, is less certain. But she doesn’t say anything.

            “We were holding hands,” Allison says. “We hold hands all the time.”

            “Yeah,” Lydia says, “if our nails weren’t wet, I could hold your hand right now.”

            “Exactly!” Allison says. “It’s just, our nails _are_ wet. Or I totally would!”

            “Wanna sleep over?” she adds, twisting the top back on the bottle.

 

            Over the next month, they wake up in the same bed three times, hands shoved or twisted or tangled together.

            “This is ridiculous,” they say, but they both make careful rules for themselves.

Allison is allowed to keep her hand exactly halfway between her and Lydia. Any closer to her is cheating; any farther is too risky.

            Lydia sets no rules on distance, but chooses hand position carefully; is loosely curled or flat more conducive? Fingers spread or close? She conducts her experiments carefully, and she is never disappointed by results.

 

            There’s a cold snap in December, enough for Allison’s leather gloves and Lydia’s woollen mittens. They sit outside to eat, and Lydia can’t write to do her homework; Allison trades with her, one gloved hand and one mittened hand for each of them.

            She’s halfway through a set of chemistry problems—“ _Senior chemistry_ ,” Allison had moaned back in August, “I don’t even want to watch _you_ do that. Come take zoology with me and Stiles,” but secretly she likes to watch Lydia cross out variables and write hypotheses in her neat script, the same way Lydia likes to see strong muscle pull back a string and sharp eyes take aim—when Allison bats at her with the mittened hand, flapping ridiculously like a hyperactive dolphin.

            Lydia sniffs and keeps working, but Allison keeps going, knocking the hat off her head, and Lydia gets revenge, giving as good as she’s got.

            Allison laughs and ducks her head, coming up from behind to cuff Lydia’s chin, getting caught on the shoulder on the way back up. She dives right for Lydia’s mitten, striking a direct hit, flipping back and forth as the two of them fight it out. “Come on, Lydia,” Allison says, “math later?”

            “It’s _chemistry_ ,” Lydia says, but she peels off the glove and sticks her hand in Allison’s pocket to pull off her mitten.

 

            Lydia has hair in her mouth.

            She can taste it, hair in her mouth and beneath that the signs that she skipped brushing teeth last night. It’s disgusting.

            Her eyes feel glued shut, and she peeks one open to see Allison’s familiar posters on the walls, the pictures of her mom, of her and Scott (from after the breakup, she thinks), of Lydia laughing and swatting at the camera.

            If she’s in Allison’s bed, she might not want to rub her eyes, but she looks and Allison’s gone, ridiculous farmer’s hours that she keeps. She reaches up for a good eye-rub just as Allison walks in the door, and she’s bizarrely struck by how stupid she must look, face all scrunched up.

            But Allison’s smiling. “You look cute,” she says. “I brought you some toaster waffles.”

            Lydia snorts. “Wow, what a cook. Sure picked the right bed to sleep in.”

            Allison hops on the bed and grabs a waffle, tossing Lydia one. “Missed you when I woke up,” Lydia says nonchalantly.

            “Did you?” Allison says, and then she reaches over and takes Lydia’s hand, and Lydia really wishes she’d thought to borrow some toothpaste.


End file.
